


There is a Season

by Argyle



Category: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (2012), Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith
Genre: M/M, Mid-Canon, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3521573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abe is ensconced in the Executive Mansion, heavily guarded and drowning in work. But that doesn't stop Henry from visiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a Season

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the same universe as my still in-progress longfic "And yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring," hence my naming and characterization of the trinity vampires.

At any given time, no fewer than a dozen armed guards stood watch at the Executive Mansion—and even more at night. Those stationed by the entrance or any of the peripheral doors had been instructed to grant visitors admittance only after positive identification and utmost scrutiny.

And so it stood to reason that the easiest way to get inside was to bypass the ground level altogether. In the months since Abe took office, Henry had scaled those white walls more times than he cared to count, hoisting himself up to stoop outside the long window and observe Abe's rooms. While he received daily reports from Abe's bodyguards, he felt better seeing for himself that Abe was well. More, he _longed_ for his friend's company. Even on nights that he set out from his brownstone without the intention of visiting the Mansion, his limbs would prevail and he'd again find himself on that swampy lawn as if tugged by some invisible thread.

Tonight was no different.

Not wanting to damage the façade, Henry mounted the banister without the use of his claws—but it was certainly a set of claws that met him at the top. He abruptly found himself lifted up to the roof and then thrown to the other side of the balustrade. A man's heavy form came down on his middle, pinning him just as he saw the glint of a knife… and then _felt_ said knife graze his throat.

"Oh, beautiful. A reprieve from these doldrums," said the man, and of course Henry knew him: William Morse, member of the Union and one of Abe's unholy trinity. A vampire sworn to protect the president at all costs. "What have we here?"

Henry exhaled. "Your employer, for one."

"Henry?" Morse frowned but was off him in an instant. He extended a hand. "Jesus, Henry. I didn't think—"

"It's all right," Henry said, letting Morse help him up. He touched his throat—while his fingertips came back red, the wound had already begun to close. "I'm glad to see you're doing your job."

Morse smiled toothily. "It's worth it for the fringe benefits." And then, sheathing his knife: "We meet all sorts of vagabonds and villains. There have even been reports of a ghost lurking round President Lincoln's rooms. A groundskeeper sighted it not three days ago. But it's damned quick, our ghost. My brothers and I have been taking turns, staying on the lookout for it… Am I to assume it's been you all along?"

"Assume nothing," Henry said, elusively, and handed Morse a couple of coins. "But thank you, William. Have a round on me. I'll see him through 'til dawn."

"I'm afraid I've a hankering for something stronger than whiskey tonight."

"Then take care. Your duty is to—"

"I know." Morse's expression grew thoughtful. "You worry about him."

"With good reason."

Morse leapt onto the balustrade. "He's fallen asleep at his desk again. Fifth time this week." And then he was gone, vaulting to the lawn and away.

For all its horrors, the physical benefits of vampirism could hardly be denied.

Henry slid back down to Abe's ledge. There was a trick to opening the window from the outside, but it was one he'd mastered. In moments he'd stepped inside, edging into the shadows, and sure enough: Abe was seated at his great desk, a man set adrift in the flotsam of papers and folios and books. Head tilted back. Full, steady breath.

Nightmares. Fire and blood and death—so much death.

Henry gleaned Abe's dreams as one might palm dew from meadow grass, and it sickened him, well and truly chilled him to his core, for what was he to Abe if not the source of death—a canker in Abe's pure soul.

He thought: _Forgive me._

And yet Abe's trials were far from finished. Henry had seen to that the moment he asked Abe to abandon his quiet life for the sake of the Union. For the lives of them all.

"It isn't for you."

Henry started. He'd been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he'd failed to see those clear blue eyes open and fix on him. "What isn't?" he ventured.

Abe shook his head. "This," he said, "isn't for you. Not your kind. I do it for my sons."

"How did you know…"

"I'm surrounded by mindreaders. Have been for decades, so something must've rubbed off," Abe said drolly. "After all this is over, maybe Mister Barnum will give me a job. Well. Now that you're here you might as well have a seat. What's it to be tonight, Henry?"

Henry settled into a chair. "I only wanted to see you," he admitted.

"And? Do you like what you see?"

Normally Henry would bristle at being addressed in such a tone. But Abe had a point. Henry could pick out every new wrinkle nested round Abe's eyes; the entrenched frown lines; the chestnut hair gone grey. At fifty-one, he was hardly old: but even this was belied by his too-hunched frame. "You're the most formidable being I have ever encountered, Abraham. That your power now comes from a pen when once it was augmented by—" Henry glanced up at the well-worn axe mounted above the hearth.

Abe calmly followed Henry's gaze. "How many d'you think I've killed?"

"I—I don't know," Henry said. In fact, he could very well guess. "I didn't count them."

"Well, I did." Abe crossed his arms over his chest, stiffening as if he meant to suppress a shudder. The fire had gone to ash hours before. And for a while, they remained there, Abe's eyes eventually dropping, Henry's never leaving Abe. The clock chimed the quarter-hour: two fifteen.

At this, Abe straightened, pushing his chair back and standing. He stretched his arms. He unbuttoned his shirt. Then: "Mary and our boys are at the Cottage this week. Along with one of your thugs."

Henry smiled thinly. "Then they will be protected," he said. "I had a close call with William Morse tonight… on your roof. He's very diligent. They all are."

"He's what… the younger one?"

"Beard," Henry corrected, feeling a pang of sadness. "The least you could do is learn their names. The things they do—"

"Trinity will do, thank you." By then Abe had crossed the room, and nearing the door he said, "I'm going to bed."

Henry swallowed, murmuring, "All right," but Abe turned to look at him again. Something in his features had softened, and for a moment Henry managed to pick out the boy he'd once been.

"You could join me."

Henry did.

It had been decades since he'd last held Abraham, and longer still since they'd shared anything close to intimacy. And yet when Abe's strong hands loosened the ties of Henry's cloak, letting it drop and pool about them, when he cupped Henry's chin and said wonderingly, "Still beautiful, Henry," Henry couldn't help but shiver.

And then, for he had no knack for romantic timing: "The great curse of being twenty-four until the stars fall from the sky."

"Your bones will never ache," said Abe, and kissed him, "nor will you know fatigue," again, "or illness."

"But pain. I've known pain."

Stripped down to their drawers, they stretched out on Abe's bed. Henry nestled up behind Abe—the proximity of Abe's long frame, the rediscovery of his warmth, the arcs and angles of him, had the eerie familiarity of returning to a once-beloved home long since lived in. He slipped his arm over Abe's ribcage, capturing Abe's hand in his own.

And Abe fell swiftly to sleep.

For a long time, Henry was content to listen to him breathe; to shift when Abe shifted. He could make out the ticking of the mantle clock. Two thirty. Two forty-five. And in the still darkness, the book on Abe's nightstand: _Frankenstein_.

Dawn was hours away.


End file.
